


Four Times Carlton Lassiter & Juliet O'Hara Pretended To Be Married (And One Time They Had To Make-Out To Distract A Perp)

by piecesofalice



Category: Psych
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofalice/pseuds/piecesofalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One, two, three, four - it's all a part of being partners, they supposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Carlton Lassiter & Juliet O'Hara Pretended To Be Married (And One Time They Had To Make-Out To Distract A Perp)

  
"It says mate. We're mates, aren't we?"  
"I don't really know."  
\- Ann Sheridan &amp; Cary Grant, _I Was A Male War Bride_

  
\---

  
**1\. On The Contrary**

  
"Carlton!"

  
He looked up from where he was plotting his escape through the side window (down the hedge, across the lawn, into the car he'd push down the street to start), and looked at his partner. She was gesturing wildly, her hair done with tiny barrettes in the shape of flowers and her skirt a flowy knee length number covered in polka dots.

  
"I'm coming." His hands in his pockets, his body clad in a "good suit", he walked over to O'Hara's side and let her take his arm without thinking. O'Hara was muttering madly now, the real estate agent down the hall on her cell trying, fruitlessly it seemed from their side of the conversation, to close some big-ass deal with Britney or Christina or whoever the hell wanted to pay a million plus for some ramshack in south Santa Barbara.

  
"I want this apartment. I _need_ this apartment."

  
Or, in today's case? Someone who convinces her partner to pretend to be her "hubby" so she can secure a "gorgeous little walk-up, Carlton, where they don't look twice at single women with cats because they're not a 'good investment', can you believe it?"

  
"And when the landlord notices I'm not there...?"

  
"You work a lot." She bent forward, whispering against his cheek and smelling like lavender. "Secret forces."

  
"Ah." He tapped his nose sarcastically. "Gotcha."

  
"Mr. and Mrs. Lassiter!"

  
They both snapped their heads around and plasted on smiles; both pretending but finding it so easy, hey, it was kind of nice.

  
"I'm ready for you to fill out the paperwork when you are!"

  
So easy, that Carlton Lassiter didn't even blink when his not-wife partner squealed and kissed him on the lips.

  
\--

  
**02\. That's It, Darling. We're Cooked**

  
Last time he wore a monkey suit was the day of his wedding. The same feeling around his neck - like a noose, he scowled - the same itchy feeling across his chest from the vest and the same feeling of wanting to strip off the entire thing, throw himself on the couch and watch ESPN.

  
Same feeling around his left ring finger, too, but at least this piece of gold wasn't tied to six months of bickering over BBQs and who owned _The Greatest Hits of Journey_.

  
Lassiter wasn't stupid - he knew attending the Santa Barbara Philanthropists Gala in order to target an illegal laundering scheme could, possibly, make or break _both_ their careers. Mr and Mrs Jameson, from Washington D.C.; into gifting to young women's charities as much as humanly possible thanks to the finger pushing of their young daughters' very rich and _very_ exclusive schools.

  
("Penny hungry," Lassiter had growled when he read the brief. "Totally convincing, in face of you two," Vick had countered.)

  
Pulling at his bow tie, he knocked on the bathroom door he and O'Hara were sharing - him on the couch, natch - and rolled his eyes at the "almost ready!" that answered his wordless enquiry into her state of dress.

  
"Fine," he muttered, and he fiddled with his faux-ring, played with the TV remote and almost dropped his jaw when she finally, _spectacularly_ came out of the bathroom.

  
Hair in a chignon, dress of scarlet. Split to the thigh, with rubies and diamonds on loan from some jewel dealer who'd owed the department a favour.

  
Lassiter gulped, and Juliet smirked.

  
"Ready, Mr. Jameson?"

\---

  
**03\. "Dear Madam" - That's Me**

  
Things didn't _really_ get uncomfortable until they brought out The Swing.

  
"What? Oh!" she exclaimed, and the other couples peered at them like the newbies they were, the small circles of pressure on her hand administered by her partner as a sign he was still _Lassiter_ the only thing bringing her around.

  
"It's a pleasure swing, Davina," Candy or Mandy said to her (because that was her fake name for this _ridiculous_ sting), "don't they have these at the clubs in Miami?"

  
Candy/Mandy's husband, who had too much hair up his nostrils, leered at her.

  
Juliet could feel Carlton trying very hard not to laugh next to her, and suddenly? She felt the need to prove herself and the research she'd done on Wikipedia the night before.

  
"Sure thing, we had The Swing. It's just," and she paused to press her mouth into the side of her partner's neck, "yours looks a little different to the ones we had back home." Surreptitiously, she gave Lassiter the signal to back her up - two squeezes of the hand and the key word - "isn't it different, _Kitten_?"

  
"Uh. Yes. Um. Ours had...spikes?"

  
To say they were avoided for the rest of the night (except from curious looks from Candy/Mandy's hairy husband)? Was an understatement.

  
\---

  
**04\. Come On, Let's Fill It Out**

  
"The walls are white."

  
"So?"

  
"White's bad for a kid's development."

  
"Where on earth did you hear _that_?"

  
"Discovery Channel."

  
"You did not."

  
"And for the record, I would never have a child named Graydon."

  
"Why not? It matches Carlton."

  
"Or Missy."

  
"That's my cat's name!"

  
"_Exactly._"

  
"Missy and Graydon Jones! Nice names."

  
"Cops-undercover's-kid's-names, O'Hara, you need to think on the ball and try to one up your suspect."

  
"She's the principal, Carlton."

  
"_Who_ could be the centre of this whole dilly-ad."

  
"...Dilly-ad?"

  
"_Situation_."

  
"Whatever."

  
"But she probably doesn't care, she's happy with the $100 000 a semester tuition she'll be getting from Little Flo and Joe."

  
"Missy and Graydon. Five and eight."

  
"Five's a bit old to be starting school, isn't it?"

  
"If you don't shutup, I am going to undercover divorce you and take sole custody of the kids, seriously."

  
"Good. Then I won't have to hear their crappy, obvious names."

  
\---

  
**05\. I Am My Wife!**

  
Before their cover had even been blown, they both knew this sting was a bad idea. Word was going down that there was SBPD in the joint, and already the search was on even while the girls-for-hire were being ushered out the door.

  
Lassiter hated undercover. He hated undercover-in-a-strip-club-come-brothel even more, but boy, oh boy, he was determined to catch the scum that had turned his tiny little homicide into a full-on vice crime-a-palooza.

  
His partner, however, had gone from excited to nervous in five easy steps - five of which were the couples on the other side of the room who were being frisked for bugs and questioned like they were cops.

  
Considering they _were_ cops? Yeah, Juliet was nervous.

  
"We need to go."

  
"O'Hara, wait."

  
"Now, Carlton!"

  
Dragging her partner by the arm, through the back hallway, past the back room that had presented them with a dead body a few nights before - then -

  
"I saws that couple go dis way, boss. Makin' a run?"

  
Heavy footsteps. The detectives froze.

  
Juliet reacted, and stuck her tongue down her partners throat, put his hands up her skirt and her own in his hair. Her partner, bless his soul, pretended to react - he was undercover, after all, she told herself matter-of-factly - and after a few seconds of her making "come on, come on!" noises he turned into what could only be considered a college boy in heat.

  
Kissing her back, running his hand down her thigh and pulling her leg up so she was half-straddling his waist; her lipstick transferred and all over her face, his other hand between her back and her chest and _oh_, she'd be damned but he was nibbling her lips before pressing down on them, all teeth and tongue, again.

  
If she hadn't of been _completely_ in the moment, if she hadn't of been the _good cop she was_, she'd have heard the approach of the bad guys, the dismissal of them as cops and the leering at her legs and how her partner was apparently going to get some tonight.

  
Ten minutes later, they pulled apart, panting.

  
"Good job, O'Hara."

  
"Thanks, Carlton," and she pulled down her skirt and lead him out, head high.

  
\---

  
_Fin._

  
\---


End file.
